On a Raven's Whim
by BadassCatNinjaXion
Summary: What had started out as a normal mission for Altaïr quickly turned into something much bigger.. And more problematic. "Yes, they killed my assassination target, Malik. But now they want to kill me as well!" Not AU, NOT AltMal, T for violence and character death in later chapters. *rating may change*
1. The Hunter

**On a Raven's Whim**

**Disclaimer: Ubisoft owns Assassin's creed and all characters theirin. I own only my imagination :) **

One: The Hunter

Kavas Mesch was about to die.

He had been stumbling around the slums of Damascus for hours, checking over his shoulder and taking several twisted routes to throw off pursuers. The man was unusually paranoid. He was also being followed, but the foolish jewel merchant was unaware of the danger that stalked him along the rooftops.

Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad ran behind and above the lost merchant, tracking his every move, plotting the kill.

Al Mualim would be pleased with Mesch's death; the jewel merchant was a loyal and (verbal) supporter of the Templar cause, and his wealth had helped fund Robert de Sable's expeditions.

Altaïr knelt down on the roof and primed his hidden blade. Kavas was tiring. Fat merchants like him never seemed to invest in exercise, preferring the softness of their chintz pillows and the touch of expensive whores to the dirty grime of the street. Altaïr prepared to leap onto his target, blade extended. He creeped along the edge of the roof, determining the right angle for his kill...

Kavas turned down a deserted alley, and came face to face with a dead end. The man frowned, but as he turned to go back the way he came, some heavy crates came tumbling down in front of him, blocking him in.

Altaïr checked his jump, all his instincts tingling. Something was very wrong.

Hadn't the master spread the word? Kavas was his target! Whoever had done that was going to receive more than words if they messed with his assassination. Altaïr himself would make sure of it...

Altaïr growled, dropping flat and scanned the roofs, searching for movement.

There!

There was a flash of movement along the other end of the roof and Altaïr cursed; the Assassin was already making his move. With another growled oath, Altaïr slid off the roof and down into the semi darkness of the dead end street, absorbing the impact with his toes and crouching. Even though he had tried his best to be silent, Kavas heard _something_ and whirled, squinting futilely in the dusk.

Altaïr rolled behind a teetering stack of boxes and stood, holding his breath as the target called out.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

Kavas's voice was thin and weak, and was shaken with fear, but it also held a steely, cruel note. He had a weapon.

Altaïr cursed the unseen Assassin, and he cursed his own bad luck. Now he would have to take Kavas down face to face, something he was not looking forwards to, especially if the man had a blade of his own...

Altaïr regulated his breathing and let his hidden blade slide out with a snick.

_If I am to do this it must be now_.

He inhaled..

A shrill, unnerving, high pitched whistle pierced the air, and Altaïr dropped into a crouch again as he scanned the roofs for the source of the sound.

_What an unholy racket! What kind of a distraction is that?_

The noise rose higher and higher until it passed from hearing, and Altaïr grimaced suddenly, clapping his hands over his ears. If he couldn't hear the sound, he could now certainly _feel_ it. A deep throbbing pain began pounding between his eyes, nearly whiting out his vision. He felt each of his muscles spasm and lock, and he almost curled up, helpless.

And then, without any notice, the noise just ceased. All that remained was a loud ringing in Altaïr's head.

As Altaïr shook his head trying to restore his hearing, he saw Kavas convulse, his hands scrabbling wildly at his throat, yellowish foam bubbling from in between his clenched teeth.

_Poison_? Altaïr wondered grimly as the man twitched erratically, his black eyes bulging.

_This assassin uses poison?_

Poison was the cowards tool. As Kavas succumbed to whatever he had imbibed and collapsed, Altaïr turned away and rested his back against his makeshift hiding place.

_What a mess..._

Unconsciously, he let his head fall back against an unstable crate, and it toppled to the ground with a crash.

Altaïr heard a metallic snap and rolled out from beneath his hiding spot as the fallen crates exploded into shards of wood. His heart pounding, he continued his roll behind a wall and stilled his breath as he gathered himself.

_What was that?!_

There was another sound, a long whirring, and then silence. Altaïr had almost decided that it was safe to emerge when someone spoke.

"Kavas Mesch, you are not an easy man to find."

Altaïr froze again, hand on the wall, listening furiously.

_Who is that? I do not recognize that voice_.

Kavas choked. "Please..."

Altaïr frowned. Why poison him only to return?

And then he remembered his blunder and the other Assassin's swift retaliation. How easy those crates exploded...

_He has a whip._

"My patience has run thin."

The assassin's voice was soft and slow, unidentifiable. Altaïr narrowed his eyes. The target was terrified, and his weapon was useless against an enemy that couldn't be seen.

"Give me a little more time!"

"Give me one good reason why I should."

Altaïr leaned towards the invisible assassin.

Why couldn't he place that voice?

Kavas stammered, and Altaïr said a prayer for his soul.

If a target had no information, there was no reason to let them live.

Sure enough, the other assassin chuckled darkly, eliciting a quavering moan from his prey.

"You are not prolonging your life, Kavas. Tell me what you know, not what you think I want to hear, since obviously you haven't gathered enough intel for that."

Altaïr raised an eyebrow. Clever, this assassin.

_What does Kavas know?_

Kavas stammered again, but he quickly spoke, giving his unseen companion no chance to inturrupt.

"You seek someone that by all rights should be dead. Allah knows where he is; if Erik wants to remain hidden no man on earth can ever find him! Now please, I have told you what I know. Let me live. Let me _go_."

Altaïr held his breath as the unseen assassin replied.

"Kavas, what you have told me is indeed true. However, there is nothing that can or will stay my hand now. May your God judge you as he sees fit."

There was the sound of a blade being unsheathed, and Altaïr crept closer, risking detection. He had to know...

"No! Please, have mercy, I beg of you! Wait! No, stop, plea-aaaghkkk!"

Kavas's pleas were turned into a wet scream as the assassin's blade sliced into his body and blood splashed onto the ground with the sound of falling rain. Altaïr resisted the urge to look, to see exactly how he was felled...

_Damn this assassin! Kavas was my target!_

Finally Altaïr peeked out from behind the wall. The assassin was gone, but the evidence of his kill was everywhere.

Blood was all over, in artful spatters along the walls, puddles splashed here and there, and...

Footprints!

Altaïr resolved to examine the footprints in greater detail later, after he had gone over the body.

As he approached Kavas however, he slowed, his skin tingling with apprehension again.

The man was frozen in a scream, his glassy eyes wide and terrified, bile spilling from his lips and mixing with the bloody foam and saliva.

The simple disregard of the man's dignity; leaving his eyes open struck a chord in Altaïr.

There was something obscene and deeply disturbing about this kill that was magnified and cleared up when he pulled the cloak off of Kavas's chest.

_Allah almighty...Keep your servant_. He prayed, as his eyes traced the triple slashes in the man's chest that bared his organs and bones.

As he stripped the corpse of all assassin related objects, he wondered about the wound and what weapon could have possibly delivered such a blow. Altaïr's keen eyes caught something glinting at the corpse's throat, something that couldn't have been jewelry.

_Hmm? What is this?_

He unsheathed his short blade and slid it beneath the puffy flesh of the man's neck, cutting the object out.

It was a very thin, very strong metal wire, and it had almost garrotted Kavas.

_This strangled my target. Not poison...?_

Altaïr wrapped the (considerable) length of wire around his fist and continued searching the body.

There was nothing he could do more to honour it, and so he took to the rooftops, following the bloody footprints as they led him all over the tops of Damascus, spread out and smeared. Finally, when he got closer to a dilapidated cathedral, one of several failed attempts for Christianity to take hold and rule; they stopped.

Altaïr wandered around the massive stone building several times but the blood trail just ended and he was forced to return to the bureau.

"Ah, Altaïr! I assume, by your _revered_ presence here Kavas is no more?"

Altaïr ignored the Rafiq's jibes and collected his things.

"I ride for Masyaf. Send word so that they expect me."

The Rafiq nodded and went back to his book.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you have _much_ to report.."

As Altaïr left the Assassin's Bureau and rode out of the city, he reflected on the days events.

_Yes_, he thought sombrely,_ I do have much to report._

_—-—_

**A/N: This story is a non canon but canon tale. :p Altair isn't a master Assassin yet but the rafiq still dislikes him. Why? He dislikes everyone! *if there's anything un satisfying or if you have questions as to why I do what I do don't hesitate to PM me :) **


	2. Dreams

Altaïr rode into the town of Masyaf and stabled his horse, his thoughts dark and in turmoil. He was greeted at the entrance by the ever cheery Rauf.

"Altaïr! I was wondering when you would be returning! Did your mission go successfully? What is Damascus like?"

Altaïr hmmphed as he walked out of the stable, trailed by the chatty novice.

"You have more questions then trees have leaves. Is Al Mualim in?"

Rauf nodded, his smile faltering. "He seems... pensive."

Instantly the grin sprang back up on his face, as did a hopeful gleam in his dark eyes.

"May I walk with you?"

Altaïr nodded. The novice practically bounced along beside the older assassin, chattering about all manner of subjects with hardly a breath in between.

"And then The Master said my first real test, you know, the kill, is going to be in Damascus, so I need to be prepared... And thats why I asked you what its like, so that when I go I'll know what to expect..."

They had reached the citidal. Rauf grinned, and with a wave, he left, whistling some tune and Altaïr walked inside to meet his master.

Al Mualim was staring out of his window as Altaïr approached, but didn't acknowledge him.

"I hear you have strange news for me, Altaïr. I take it the mission in Damascus did not go as planned?"

Al Mualim turned away from the window and faced his pupil as Altaïr approached the weathered desk without a word and laid the metal wire on it.

The Master looked at the bloody wire and a dark shadow passed over his face as he picked the thin wire up and examined it. Finally he sighed.

"I have seen this before. I confess, not so far from the country of its origin, however. How came you across this?"

Altaïr crossed his arms.

"I was tracking Kavas Mesch. All was well but then... I was interrupted."

Al Mualim's face went white. The Master covered his face with a hand and sighed.

_"Le corbeau _has arrived."

Altaïr frowned. _Le corbeau?_

_"_French, Altaïr. It means, 'The Raven', and is a very apt name for your adversary."

Al Mualim handed the wire back to his pupil. "This is a very effective, yet almost unknown weapon known as _' La gorge plus étroite', _or _' Décès poignée invisible,'_ but whichever language you prefer the meaning is nearly the same. 'Throat closer. Invisible handle of Death.' It is a lasso, Altaïr, and was invented by a french Assassin as a means to subdue and to kill."

Altaïr frowned again.

"This, this Raven.. killed Kavas. Kavas said... that the man he was looking for... Should be dead. That... If he wanted to remain hidden no one on earth would be able to find him."

Al Mualim gripped the edges of his desk. "Altaïr! Do you remember the name? The name of the man?"

"Erik."

"Ah," Al Mualim's expression soured. _'Or corneille.' _The Raven is looking for the Crow. How mysterious, and what bad timing."

He relaxed and turned away, back towards the window again.

Altaïr uncrossed his arms and looked down at the lasso, source of so much trouble.

"Kavas was mauled, master."

Al Mualim sighed.

"An unfortunate occurance."

Altaïr took a step towards Al Mualim. "Kavas was _my_ target! This..._Raven_, whoever he is, cannot just kill whom he pleases! Is he not an Assassin like us, bound by the same creed?"

Al Mualim turned around. "Altaïr, I _forbid_ you from investigating into this further. Do you hear me? Leave the Raven _ALONE_."

Altaïr scowled but bowed trying not to sound like a sulking child. "If that is your wish, master."

"It is. Furthermore, I would like you to remain here, in Masyaf, for a couple of days."

Altaïr could feel anger coiling in his chest, and his next words were spoken through clenched teeth.

"Master, I'm not a novice. I have tasks that need completion."

Al Mualim smiled at him.

"Altaïr, you are not a master assassin yet. And with that attitude I am not inclined to make you one anytime soon. If I say you will stay, then in Masyaf you shall remain. Dismissed."

He went back to staring out of the window down at the courtyard.

Altaïr, with another curt bow, turned on his heel and left, heading for the sleeping quarters, anger boiling.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't _Altaïr_."

Altaïr turned slightly, meeting the other assassin's unfriendly black eyes. "Abbas."

Abbas was lounging against a pillar, a mocking smirk almost dividing his face. "Back from another _bootlicking_ session, I see. Did the master reward you for your services with a treat?"

Altaïr could feel his blood heating at the insult but he ignored it and just kept walking. "Safety and peace, brother."

A fist came out of nowhere and slugged him in the side of his jaw, knocking him off balance. The world spun for a moment, and then he was suddenly sprawled out on the stone floor, the taste of blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue, his cheek and jaw smarting.

"What have I told you, _Altaïr_?"

Altaïr tried to get his bearings, his head ringing worse then when that demonic whistle had almost pierced his eardrums.

"Don't ever call me brother!" Abbas roared from behind him, and Altaïr rolled just as Abbas's foot came down where his head had been.

He got to his feet quickly and turned, hands up, watching the other assassin circle.

"Abbas, I don't want to-"

Abbas charged into him, and Altaïr hissed as white hit pain lanced up his right arm. He looked. Abbas had sliced a two inch gash in his skin that was now bleeding profusely and staining the white of his robes red.

Altaïr growled, whipping his short blade out and pointing it at his enemy.

"Abbas, I'm warning you..."

Abbas snarled and jumped him again, slashing in a frenzy that had Altaïr ducking as well as defending.

What was with his brother? He had known Abbas disliked him, but _this?_

He was trying to kill him!

"Abbas!" Altaïr yelled as Abbas attempted to stab his hidden blade into his neck, and Altaïr blocked it just in time. "What has come over you?"

Abbas grinned, a feral contortion of teeth. "Its what has always been inside. I hate you. I want you dead."

And Abbas sank his blade into Altaïr's throat.

Altaïr woke, heart pounding, bolt upright in his pallet. His hand immediately went to his throat, and he relaxed when he found no wounds present.

_Just a dream,_ he breathed as he lay back, staring at the stone ceiling and listening to the even breathing all around him.

_It was only a dream ..._

He rubbed his bare arms and shivered slightly. It had seemed so real. And Abbas didn't make it a secret that he despised Altaïr.

Could his dream hold some truth?

Altaïr shivered again and slid back beneath the wool blanket.

He didn't want to meditate on it now. Such things were best explored when there was light in the sky...

The next morning, Altaïr was quieter than usual. His dream- or rather; his nightmare; filled his mind, and he found himself watching himself around his brothers more than he usually would have. He didn't see Abbas at all that morning, and it was finally walking through the novice hall, the same place as in his dream, that Abbas found _him_.

"Altaïr!"

He whirled.

Abbas was striding towards him, a scowl on his face.

Altaïr blanched.

So soon? His dream was to become a reality?

"Altaïr, the Master wishes to see you."

Altaïr looked at Abbas until the other man glared at him.

"See something you like? Quit goggling at me!"

Altaïr walked past him, then stopped.

"Safety and peace, Abbas."

Abbas rolled his eyes.

"Safety and peace, Altaïr, now get out of my sight!"

Altaïr left, his heart slightly lighter.


	3. The Task

-** First off, a big THANK YOU to for being the first to review! It may sound stupid, but that made me super happy and uplifted and eager to write more... *cookies and kudos to you! :3 **

—-—

Al Mualim waited with his hands behind his back, in front of his desk.

Altaïr approached slowly, remembering his anger from before, keeping his head low, and his attitude in check.

"Master."

"Altaïr." Al Mualim walked around the desk and placed his hands on the younger Assassin's shoulders. "I thought about what you said yesterday, and I realized that you are right. You are not a novice."

"Master?" Altaïr looked up and stepped back a pace. "What do you mean?"

"You wish to be a Master Assassin? Then prove you can stand the challange. The Templars have all but overrun Jerusalem. Take them all down, Altaïr, and then we'll talk." Al Mualim's expression was dismissive, and so Altaïr bowed deeply and took his leave. "I will not disappoint you."

"See that you don't."

"So, Altaïr, what brings you to Jerusalem?"

Malik leaned against the counter in the Assassin's Bureau, drumming his fingertips against the wood idly.

Altaïr stood in front of his friend and leaned on the barrier separating them.

"The Templars."

"When _isn't_ it them?"

"Touche. Malik, what can you tell me about this?"

Malik pulled the leather bound ledger out from beneath the counter and consulted it with a sigh.

"What is there to tell? Jerusalem is crawling with the pests. Go outside and see for yourself."

Altaïr smirked. "Alright, I will."

He turned on his heel and left Malik, who was playing with a long feather.

"Don't forget to bring me a helmet for my collection, Altaïr!" The Bureau Leader called after him as he strode out of sight.

Altaïr rolled his eyes beneath his hood and swiftly climbed out of the courtyard and onto the roof.

The Jerusalem sun beat down on him as he sprinted towards the edge, jumping across beams and scaffolds to reach the other side. He free-ran, relishing the speed and exhilaration the action gave him, almost flying over the city.

Altaïr slowed only when the burn in his lungs became unbearable and he had to take a quick rest.

It was then that he heard the scream.

Altaïr slowly approached the source of the noise from above, unsheathing his hidden blade just in case.

The scream came again, but it was higher, a woman's cry, and so Altaïr crouched behind a lattice, not wanting to be seen. When no alarm was raised, he crept to the edge of the roof and looked down, his vision partly obscured by a merchants stall. A man walked by below him, and immediately the red helmet and cross emblem on him was visible as Altaïr narrowed his eyes; they glowed and pulsed crimson.

_Templars_. Malik had not lied. They were indeed crawling all over the city.

There was another sharp cry, and then a long string of foreign language, most likely french.

What was going on down there out of sight? Altaïr shifted a little more to the left...

"Got the bitch!" The Templar cried, suddenly diving out of Altaïr's field of vision and returning with a slender person entirely clothed in black, growling at her viciously as she attempted to cuff him about his helmet with her fists.

Then the man gave a yell and jumped away from the woman, gripping his hand, which was bleeding. Another Templar soldier rushed up and attempted to restrain the woman, without much success.

"Bitch bit me!" The first Templar raised his good fist, but yet another Templar strode into view, this one without a helmet, and the man backed down.

"Cortez! Give her to me!" The helmless Crusader barked, and then Altaïr watched as the woman robed in black was handed to the Templar captain.

The man leaned down and slapped the woman, his eyes narrowed. "Stupid bitch! You thought you could just take possessions from us? Insolent whelp! I'll teach you the value of property... Starting with your body!"

The woman made no reply but kicked out, soundly catching the Captain in his groin and as he fell clutching his manhood she kneed him in the face and ran.

The other Templars reacted fast however, forming a tight circle around her as their captain pushed through, his nose and mouth bloody. He unsheathed a dagger from his belt, pointing it at her and spitting in fury.

_Vous paierez avec votre life!_ You will pay with your life!

The man made slicing motions across his own throat to demonstrate as the other Templars began a chant.

_Battre! Battre! _Fight! Fight!

The woman stood frozen for a second, before whirling and pulling a sword from another Templar's belt.

Suitably armed, she faced her opponent, the long sword trembling in her grasp.

The chant became a jeer as the captain circled the woman, who followed him with her eyes, her weapon raised.

Finally the Templar snarled and attacked, slashing at the woman's throat with his dagger.

She raised the sword and deflected it just in time, pushing the man back a step.

Again the Captain struck, again he was repelled.

His snarl grew more pronounced as he feinted, then spun for her shoulder and she brought the sword around in an arc to meet it. The circle of Templars was silent now as every attack their leader made was countered and turned aside.

Altaïr watched the battle, hidden as he was on the roof. The woman was holding her own, but against a Captain of the Cross? Even he would have difficulty against one of those...

The captain's manoeuvres were jerky and slower now. He was tiring. As his dagger met the woman's sword edge for the umpteenth time, she flicked her wrist and wrenched it from his hand, sending it skidding along the ground.

There was silence as the Templar looked at the sword tip at his throat and then up at the black cowled woman who was holding it.

Somewhere, a bird cawed.

"_Vous perdez. Donner la sacoche de nouveau à moi_," You lose. Give the bag back to me.

she growled in flawless French, making the surrounding Templars stir in unease. "_Ou je vais vous couper un nouveau sourire,_" she added coldly, prodding the captain's throat.

Or I'll cut you a new smile.

The captain nodded once and, without taking his eyes off the woman reached down and unhooked a black satchel from his belt. He glared at her as he held it out and she snatched it from him and slid it around her slender shoulders. "_Je vous remercie beaucoup_." Thank you very much.

Altaïr shifted. _What was that? Surely it was important..._

The woman's polite tone of voice belied the ease and familiarity in which she held the sword to the Templar's throat.

"I trust that next time you feel the need to ravage something you will destroy a wagon or something along those lines. Am I right?"

The captain nodded, a very slight inclination of the head.

"Good."

And with a swift motion, the woman thrust the sword up through his throat and into his skull.

The Templar captain gave a choking gurgle and then fell over, tugging the sword from her hands, just as the ring of men woke from their shock and turned on her.

The woman growled and spun, looking for an escape route. There was none, and now all of the men had swords drawn.

The woman squared her shoulders and faced them with a haughty expression on her face that Altaïr could see from where he was perched. She growled at those that got close, backing away all the while.

" _Vraiment vous voulez verrouiller griffes avec le corbeau? Ainsi soit-il!"_

You really want to lock claws with the Raven? So be it!

Altaïr felt his pulse quicken slightly.

Corbeau? Did she say.. Corbeau?

The woman plunged a hand into her robe and withdrew a flashing dagger.

Faster than the blades before and around her, she ducked and thrusted the small knife into a Templar helmet. The man's scream cut off as she yanked it out of his skull and turned to face the other eleven enemies thirsting for her blood.

Altaïr narrowed his eyes as the first Templar dropped, blood pooling around his scarlet helm and staining his white tunic, and the woman stepped to the side and evaded another Templar's enraged attack, cool as you please, knocking him to the ground and stabbing him with another sword.

How did she...?

She pummelled another man rapidly in his chest several times with both fists as he ran at her, sword raised, and the man fell, blood pouring from multiple stab wounds.

Without missing a beat, she turned, took another's sword and sheathed it in its owner.

Altaïr's pulse raced faster and faster still as he witnessed the helpless woman decimate her enemies.

They never even stood a chance. Altaïr was shaken, and as each Templar fell in a spray of blood, his thoughts clamoured louder.

_How? Only an Assassin would know these techniques. What is Al Mualim not telling me? Surely...?_

The woman shoved a Templar into one of his buddies, and both of them went careening into an empty stall, which collapsed on top of them.

Two Templars paused their assault and looked at their companions, lying under the wood and stone rubble and the woman slashed their throats. They both died desperately trying to stem the flow of blood from their cut jugulars and gurgling. With a smooth motion, the woman slid a curved dagger from the sheath on her leg and waited.

The last two men looked at each other briefly before rushing the black clad figure, swords raised, screaming in hoarse fury.

Altaïr's breath caught in his lungs as she tore through the first like a desert dust storm, slicing lines through the Templar cross on his tunic with her blade, seemingly without even touching his body. He staggered a step, then looked down, finally noticing the blood spreading across his chest and arms, and fell face down.

The last Templar turned and ran, dropping his sword with a clang in the dust and fleeing for his life.

Altaïr shifted position slightly, but the woman was already in chase.

She pulled something from her robes and threw it at the fleeing crusader. Altaïr narrowed his eyes again as the Templar's head snapped back and his hands went to his throat and he tumbled to the ground, hacking.

The woman walked up behind him and flicked her wrist sharply downwards.

Altaïr swore under his breath as three long metal blades extended from beneath her glove. She held them where the ensnared Templar could see, and they glinted wickedly in the sunset. The Crusader began struggling backwards, but the woman, the Raven, yanked on the wire she had around his throat and brought him back under her power.

_This is not good,_ Altaïr thought, as he watched the woman bring one of the bladed claws underneath the Templar's helmed chin. _I need to tell Malik, he'll tell Al Mualim... The Raven is in Jerusalem._

There was a muffled scream, a snick, and a clank, as the metal claw sliced into the crusader's throat and scraped against the helmet.

Altaïr watched the claw emerge, shiny with blood, and he gasped involuntarily as she slashed straight through the Templar's tunic and through his flesh.

She turned and looked up at him, her metal claws dripping with blood, and Altaïr didn't think, he just moved.

He ducked, and felt the wood of the roof shudder as two throwing knives embedded themselves where his head had been.

_Get back to the Bureau. Get to where you're safe_.

Altaïr turned and ran back the way he came, dropping onto another, lower line of roofs just as a streak of black appeared on the rooftop above, aking the same path.

_Is she following me?_

Altaïr ducked into a rooftop garden and the woman slowed and stopped, clicking her claws together Right outside his hiding place. Altaïr held his breath, mentally praying.

_Just keep walking, just keep walking, there's nothing here... Its empty... Move on, please, move on..._

Finally, she jumped off the edge of the roof and disappeared out of sight.

Altaïr let his heartbeat slow and finally he left the garden and free ran all the way back to the Bureau, sliding the rooftop grate closed behind him.

Malik was about to get more than a helmet...


	4. The Hunted

**A/N: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS CHARACTER DEATH. DONT LIKE, DONT READ.. (I think I said that right.. But seriously, killing of a character here so.. *awkward silence* Anyway, thanks again to the reviewers, you rock my world!**

**aaaand Ubisoft owns all Assassiny things.. If I owned anything, It would suck.**

-—-

Malik was doodling horses and weapons when Altaïr returned.

"Where's my helmet?" Malik groused, when his friend swept past him without returning his initial greeting.

Altaïr turned, and the look on his face made Malik shiver and hold the stump of his missing arm protectivly.

"Are there any other entrances to the Bureau besides the roof?"

Malik frowned. "No, why? Altaïr, you don't look so good..."

For Altaïr had just realized that they were effectively trapped, and his face had paled. "Malik, we need to leave, _now_."

The Bureau leader uncrossed his arm and started lighting the lamps as dusk approached.

"Altaïr, what is it? You're acting very odd."

Altaïr paused and looked back, towards the courtyard.

"Malik, there's a ...a woman. I watched her kill an entire troop of Templars. And..."

Altaïr swallowed. "I... She saw me. She'll be looking for me. She killed my target in Damascus, Malik, and I don't know _how_ many others... She's dangerous. We need to leave, now."

Malik frowned. "An _entire_ troop? How is that possible?"

Altaïr shook his head, glancing nervously at the rooftop grate. "Sorcery? Training? I do not know. Please, Brother... Let us be gone from here."

Malik walked back to the long counter and ran his hand over the cover of the ledger thoughtfully.

"Perhaps she is an ally."

Altaïr groaned. "She isn't, believe me."

"She kills Templars." The Bureau leader sat, pulled a feather quill and an inkwell close, and began to write.

"She would have made an end of me also had she caught me."

Malik stopped the scratching of his pen, looked up, and leveled his cool gaze onto his friend. "We should explore all possibilities and options, Altaïr. You may have simply startled her." He went back to writing.

Altaïr almost bashed his fist into the wall in frustration. "She tried to kill me with her infernal whip once.. And then skewer me with knives. Does that _sound_ like an ally?"

Malik only blinked, focussed as he was on his task.

"If you are what she's after, then _you_ should leave. Al Mualim needs _me_ here."

Altaïr's shoulders drooped. _Malik..._

Nothing he could do or say would convince Malik to leave. "Then safety and peace be upon you. Keep your blades close."

"You as well."

Malik didn't look up until long after Altaïr had gone, and the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. Finally he sighed, laid his quill aside, and reread what he had written. The lamp next to him flickered wildly, as a strong gust of wind rattled the Bureau. It was was a faint sound, almost a creaking, that came from the courtyard, that made him look up.

Malik frowned, looking over towards the archway.

_Is the grate closed?_

Silently, he stood and crept over to where the moonlight shone into the building, and he had an unobstructed view of the grate that served as a door for the Assassin's Bureau.

It was shut tight.

Satisfied, Malik turned to go back inside, and that was when the black shadow knocked him out.

Malik came to slowly.

Something large and dark stood in front of him, saying _something_.

He blacked out again, and felt the touch of a feather on his cheek. It was cold.

Instantly, the fuzziness in his head was gone.

That wasn't a feather, it was a _blade_.

_Open your eyes!_

Malik forced his eyes open again and blinked some more. He tried to move, and found his body was bound by a length of almost invisible wire to the chair, and something living was on his head. He shook his head vigorously from side to side, dislodging the creature, which turned out to be a large black raven. The raven flapped around the room for a moment before alighting on the wrist of the only other person in the room; a slender person robed all in black.

_Altaïr_, Malik's thoughts whispered. _He was right..._

"You're awake."

Malik couldn't place an age or a nationality to the woman's voice; it was soft, and smooth, and sharper than a broadsword.

He looked at her, tracing the curve of her hips, the small bump of her breast beneath her robes, her age still unidentifiable as she strode towards him again.

"Now that I have your attention, let me remark on what a well kept establishment you have here. Very... Clean. Very... Well lit."

Malik tilted his head and looked around. The Bureau was lit with torches to the point that shadows were non existent, except in the corner where the woman stood. Malik swallowed and turned his eyes back to that corner of darkness. "What do you want?"

The woman smirked. "Want? Want.. I want... _Information_. And I will do everything in my power to get it."

The raven on her wrist let out a raucous 'RAWK' before taking flight again, finally settling on the top of a bookshelf, and fixing Malik in its beady eye. Malik eyed it back warily. "What manner of information are you after?"

The woman chuckled and the sound made the hairs on Malik's neck prickle. She flicked her wrist sharply and three long silver blades slid out of her glove, locking in place one by one with soft clicks. She lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers, and the claws moved with her, rubbing together with the sound of swords being sharpened.

"You will tell me where the Assassin has gone, or you will _die._"

Malik's eyes left her hand and travelled to her face, hidden as it was beneath her hood. "What do you want with him?" The woman chuckled again. "Only... To talk."

"You're lying."

"You're smarter than you look."

She walked around him, and he had to crane his neck to keep her in view. Something very cold and very hard pressed against his neck, curving around his throat and Malik froze, feeling the sharp edge of the claw catch the week old stubble on his gullet. He inhaled sharply as the woman's lips brushed his ear. "Now, why don't you tell me where your friend has gone, hmm?"

Malik didn't dare swallow.

"I... I don't _know_..."

The claw curved into his flesh a little.

"He isn't my friend..."

Malik could feel a slight pain as the claw dug deeper..

"He left for Masyaf!" He blurted out, his eyes shut tightly against what might happen.

The claw stopped its slow laceration, and the woman voice snapped:

"When?"

"...about..two hours ago." _I'm sorry, Altaïr..._

With a slight hiss, the claw was removed from his throat. "Was that so hard?"

Malik coughed, feeling a single stream of blood run down his throat. "What are you going to do?"

The woman turned away from him and whistled. The raven hopped off the bookshelf and glided back to her wrist. "I've never been to Masyaf. Perhaps I should pay them a visit." She began to walk away, but then paused. Grasping a torch and lifting it from its bracket, she tilted it and spilled the oil onto the stone floor. Malik's eyes widened, becoming deep brown moons in a pale face as he watched her splash the bookshelf and then the counter with lamp oil. "What... What are you doing?!"

"I'm sorry. _Really_, I am, but you've had contact with me. And I _never_ leave loose ends untied."

And with that, she tossed the torch behind the desk and walked off, the raven burbling on her arm.

Malik watched helplessly as flames began to grow. "Wait!" He called out to the woman's retreating figure, "_Please_, wait!"

"What do you want, dead man?"

Malik shuddered as the fire began to creep along the oil trails, some of which were dangerously near him, but kept his eyes on her. She had stopped!

"If you're going to leave.. At least.. At least.. Untie me! Let me die a man!"

The black shrouded figure considered that.

_"You wish to die a man?"_

Malik nodded, feeling the heat roaring almost on all sides. The fire had consumed the counter and bookshelf, and was curving around his chair in the middle of the room ever so slowly. Besides.. If he could reach that sword on the lintel above him...

He might have a chance of making it out of this mess alive.

"I was born a man, and I wish to die the same."

"So be it."

Smoke filled the room, and Malik attempted to squint through it, without much success. _She was coming back? She had to be coming back..._ That was footsteps he heard, wasn't it? or was it the crackle of burning wood? There was a click, and then a flash of metal as one of her long curving claws slid effortlessly through the wire, causing it to snap and rebound on itself.

Malik shakily stood and turned to the hazy dark shadow, and, knowing he'd only get one shot at it, threw himself at it. He was rewarded with a yelp and a curse as he knocked the woman to the ground, and then he jumped, his fingers snagging the scabbard on top of the archway. He tugged the long sword out of it and rushed to where the woman lay, dazed. Raising the sword above his head, Malik brought it swinging down with a yell, only to hear the harsh sound of metal on metal. He opened his eyes. The woman had her hand held up, and the claws had deflected his attack.

"Die a _man_, eh?" She growled at him, rolling onto her feet and clicking her claws together. "Is _that_ what you planned to do?"

Malik gripped the sword tighter and said nothing. Fire licked up m four walls now, and as Malik and the woman watched each other, pieces of the roof and walls began to crumble. "I would have taken you down first," Malik's brown eyes were hard. "No one threatens my brothers." He took a step forwards, sword extended. "Least of all a murderer, not while I still live."

The woman extended her claws to their fullest and grinned, a feral contortion of teeth. "You won't be living _long_, martyr."

She raised her claws and charged him, attempting to knock the sword out of his hand. Malik was prepared for that, so when the blow came he just gritted his teeth and stood his ground.

She pulled back a little, surprised. "Strong. Thats right, I forgot. You too adhere to that pathetic group of tenants you call a _Creed_." She prowled around his left side, his weaker one, and Malik was forced to pivot to keep her in view. "_Assassin_." She attacked again, and Malik had to step backwards to avoid being disemboweled by those long claws as she swiped at his abdomen. The harsh sound of blade meeting claw rang through the room, mingling with the dull roaring of the fire, which now raced completely beyond control. Somewhere, a deep bell was tolling, again and again. Sweat ran into his eyes, blinding him for a moment. It was getting very hard to breathe.

The woman hissed as Malik's blade caught her clawed arm, slicing a long cut down the side, and she drew back again, this time injured. Blood dripped onto the cobblestone, black in the firelight, and Malik grinned. "Not immortal? What a _shame_."

The woman snarled something unintelligible and threw herself back at him, renewing her attack with a frenzy born of fury. Malik turned away most of her attacks, and got a few more of his own in; little cuts that bled and slowed her down. Fire licked at the hems of their robes, like a loyal dog begging for scraps but they paid it no mind, engaged as they were. He stabbed at her side and she fluidly slid out of the way, returning with a vicious diagonal slash to his collar, which he parried with the edge of his blade, and so on. The battle was hard, it was fast, and it was inevitable that only one person would walk out alive.

Malik slid from one attack to the next, sinuous and fluid, like water, or a snake. Each attack had a counter attack, so on so forth. As he countered the woman's hellish claws, again and again he felt power flowing through his veins. How long had it been since he had felt like this, energized and awake? Allah, but he missed this... and to think.._ Altaïr got to feel this every day..._

Malik broke through the woman's guard and stabbed her in her side. The wound wasn't deep, but it was painful and she stumbled, slashing her claws at his throat. He parried without thinking, leaving his own chest wide open, and only realized his mistake when he felt the dagger slide home between his ribs.

As his sword dropped and he fell to his knees, Malik saw the smirk and _knew_... He knew she had planned it... But...

"You..." His voice was as rough as sandpaper, and his vision was fading around the edges as he blinked up at his foe, who now looked like a giant. "You.. cheated."

The woman bent down and Malik recoiled away from her gaze; her eyes beneath her hood were a deep glowing golden yellow. She slid a claw beneath his chin and gently tilted his head up.

"I never said I would fight fair, did I?"

And she slit his throat.

Wiping her claw on the corpse's cloak, Ravena set about stripping the place of whatever it had left, including the body, before the entire place came down on top of her. The Bureau was unsalvageable as a whole, but you never knew what fire refused to eat. Once she had secured the man's robes and meagre supplies she left, putting the ruins of the Assassin's Bureau behind her. Once safely away and on ground level again, she discreetly whistled, and Daedalus flew to her, taking his usual place on her wrist. She stroked his glossy black head while she thought, watching red helmeted Templars carrying water buckets rush past, along with other citizens, lest the fire spread. Ironic that once they realized what was burning they would just turn around and walk away. Ravena closed her eyes and listened, as chaos spread throughthe darkened streets of Jerusalem.

What a night.


	5. Predator

-—-

Altaïr rode into Masyaf slowly, his mind and heart troubled. _Malik..._

There was no Rauf to greet him this time as he stabled his horse, feeding it oats from the black bucket mechanically. It nickered, tugging at his sleeve by way of thanks, and Altaïr patted its neck before making the long trek up to the citadel. The stars shone like diamonds in the clear sky, twinkling above him. It was a beautiful night, so why did he feel so wrong?

The citadel was silent, all occupants either on watch duty or asleep, and Altaïr slipped in perpetually unseen. Al Mualim had long since retired for the night, and Altaïr had no desire to disturb him, so he quietly made his way to his pallet in the sleeping quarters, stripped down, and slid beneath the cool sheets. His mind refused to settle, however, and he found himself mulling over the day. So much had happened..

_I never even completed Al Mualim's task..._

_And that Raven woman..._

Altaïr's blade hand tingled as he remembered the ease with which she had cut down thirteen Templars, knights of the cross. Something was going on... Something that had to stretch beyond the borders of the Holy lands.

He closed his eyes, willing his thoughts to calm, and then he slipped into a restless and uneasy sleep.

Altaïr's dreams were cloudy, murky, and full of looming horror. The rising of the sun saw him sitting on top of the citadel's watchtower, as still as the carved statues that guarded his home, his eyes reflecting the sunlight.

"Altaïr? By Allah, what are you doing up there?" someone exclaimed, yelling up to him.

Altaïr looked down at the speaker. "Reflecting. Do you need something?"

The informer looked down at his feet before looking back up at him. "The Master wants you."

Altaïr took one last farewell glance at the glorious sunrise, muttering, "The Master _always_ wants me," before hastily climbing down the tower.

"What does he want now?" snapped Altaïr, his mood worsening by the minute. The informer took a step back, taken aback at Altaïr sudden irritation. "He.. He wouldn't say..." The man interlocked his fingers and looked down at them. "Only... Only to retrieve you."

"_Retrieve_ me?" Altaïr practically growled at the poor informer, taking a step towards him and making him back up hastily, his hands up. "Am I a _dog_ to be _summoned_?"

"N..no.."

The informer's eyes were wide and rimmed with white, his breathing coming fast and short, as he backed into a wall, and found himself trapped.

"It doesn't matter. He's in his tower, isn't he?" Altaïr turned from the man, the pleasure he got from intimidating him was small and fleeting and left him feeling even more irritated than before.

The informant blinked and opened his mouth to answer, but Altaïr had already swept past him with a low growl and a swirl of white. The informant waited flat against the wall for a moment, caught his breath, and then rushed off to spread the word that almost-Master-Assassin Altaïr was in a foul mood, and it was in everyone's best interest to avoid him—If they wished to live.

Altaïr stormed up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the strange looks the guards gave him as he passed, internally seething and not knowing why, just knowing he was angry at the world for existing.

_Just call me crazy... I dare you... I'll..._

_Wait, what am I thinking?_

If he killed a guard...the rest would cut down faster than he could escape..

Altaïr shook the dark thoughts from his head and continued up to Al Mualim's chamber, composing himself as he had always done, masking his true emotions.

Al Mualim waited, like he always did, beside his desk, his craggy face also expressionless. "Altaïr, welcome back. I won't ask of your mission, because I already know what the outcome was."

Altaïr's brooding mood disappeared. "You do?"

"Yes."

"Then you know about..."

"Ravena, yes."

Altaïr approached Al Mualim slowly. "Ravena?"

Al Mualim nodded. "The woman you know as the Raven, Altaïr."

"Ravena... Raven... What difference does it make?"

Al Mualim shook his head. "Ah, Altaïr. It makes all the difference if you understand your enemy."

As he spoke, a pigeon flew through the window, clattering onto the desk, a long capsule attached to its left leg. Al Mualim's eyes widened and he reached out his hand for the bird, clucking gently, until he was able to close his fist around it and remove the long tube. Altaïr waited patiently; it wasn't uncommon for the master to receive such messages often. As Al Mualim broke the golden cylinder open, something long and black fluttered onto the desk, along with a grubby piece of rolled up parchment. Al Mualim frowned, reaching for the paper and slowly unrolling it.

The letter was burnt away in places, and smeared with dark liquid in others, but it was mostly legible, and what Al Mualim read, troubled him greatly. His face slowly fell, drawn and pale, the face of a tired old man, not a wise leader of Assassins.

"Master?" Altaïr queried, holding up the sleek black raven feather, horror suddenly dawning in his eyes as he realized where the pigeon must have come from. "Malik... Master... Is—?"

Al Mualim sighed, set the letter down on his desk and placed his head in both his hands. "The Bureau is no more." He turned to Altaïr and shook his head. "Burned, to the ground."

"What of Malik?"

Al Mualim looked down at his feet and said nothing.

Altaïr dropped to his knees, feeling, hearing, seeing, nothing else but the roar of blood in his ears. He couldn't stop the moan that came from his lips, it tore through his body until he shook before emerging from him mouth as words...

"No. No, no, no, no..."

_Allah, why?_

He was offered something—wine— and he refused it, his whole body numb, whispering one word over and over again on his knees, like a mantra or a plea for help; while all around him people chattered and babbled about meaningless things...

"Malik..."

_Allah, why? Why?_

"Perhaps he's gone mad."

"Malik...

_I should have stayed! I could have fought... I could have saved him.. I could have defended my brother...I'm sorry, Malik..._

"He's in shock, give him time..."

"Malik... I'm so sorry..."

Someone slammed something onto the desk, most likely a book.

"We don't have time! That Raven is here! The arrow in Corvos's neck came with a note; here it is."

A rustling of paper... A clearing of throat...

"Prepare the Citadel. Evacuate the village..."

Panicked people running to and fro.

"There's fire down in the village! Rooftops are catching and spreading, fast!"

Altaïr opened his eyes and looked up, his vision was blurry and wavering. He blinked, and when he touched his trembling fingers to his cheeks, found them wet with tears. Someone shook his shoulder, and he looked around, slowly regaining feeling and his senses.

"Altaïr! Altaïr, _focus_. There will be a time for grieving for our lost brother but it is not now. Now is a time for _warriors_! Defend our home, Altaïr! The Raven threatens us!"

Al Mualim watched Altaïr's pupils dilate and his face clear and harden at the mention of the mysterious and now notorious Raven, and he wondered if there was more going on between between Altaïr and Malik then simple friendship, but as Altaïr wiped the tears from his face and composed himself, he dismissed that outlandish notion.

Altaïr sniffed, but he was steady on his feet as he stood and bowed. "Master, she will perish in the same flame she intends to destroy us with."

And he dashed off.

Al Mualim walked over to his window and looked out to the village, where pillars of black smoke were rising, and several black birds were circling, and then looked down. Altaïr was sprinting down the path, and the guards were hauling the huge gates open for him, shaking their heads as he blew past. Al Mualim closed his eyes and said a quiet prayer for the Assassin. "May Allah guide your blades, Altaïr. And may you avenge your brother's murder and rid us of a great foe."

An informer stood by, respectfully keeping his distance. It was the same one sent to summon Altaïr, and when Al Mualim finished his prayer, he spoke. "Master, is this woman _really_ as big a threat as she seems?"

Al Mualim turned to the man and sighed. "Ravena Destler Corbeau was born in Paris, France. Her father was a genius. He was also a magician, a composer, an inventor, a philosopher... but most importantly, he was an Assassin. He was loyal to the Brotherhood, but also loyal to his wife and child... Too loyal. So the French Assassin Master had documents turn up that both were involved in a Templar conspiracy, and ordered him to assassinate his beautiful wife and seven year old daughter. He killed his wife without emotion, but the look his child gave him broke his reserve. He killed their dog, buried it, and hid his girl, before setting fire to his house—all his work, inventions, music, his wife's body, everything he had known. He ran, then, leaving his offspring to fend for herself. She grew up alone, hating Assassins and everything we stand for. And on her seventeenth birthday, she took her fathers equipment, for he hadn't burnt it, only hid it, and some of her own inventions, and she hunted down the French Brotherhood. I'm told she killed the Master last, slitting his throat in his chamber and painting the walls with his blood before setting the entire place on fire and razing it to the ground." Al Mualim paused, looking back towards the black smoke towers on the horizon. "The robes she wears, the black Assassin Master's cloak and hood, are from that first, bloody victory. She is not an Assassin, but a _hunter_ of Assassins. That year France fell to the Templars. There were no Assassins left to defend our stake there. She discriminates not, killing Assassin and Crusader alike, and so when you ask of her threat level, I admit that yes, she is indeed, a threat."

Altaïr walked through a vision of hell. Buildings burned and people screamed, and above it all, wheeling in lazy circles between the pillars of ever growing smoke were large ravens, black as approaching death and calling in their rough voices to each other. the scene could almost outstrip a battlefield, except for the lack of bodies. Was this the peaceful village they had watched over for so long? Altaïr didn't recognize much of it. Someone ran right across the path in front of him, half naked, what clothes he had seared to his flesh, whimpering and crying in Arabic. he had a long cut across his back that was bleeding profusely. And then like a shade, he vanished back into the smoke, and was gone.

Altaïr continued down the path, hearing the faint sound of battle, and of men dying. He broke into a run, hopped a fire smouldering on the ground, and broke through the curtain of smoke onto a true battlefield. It was like deja vù. Two dozen men had encircled a single figure dressed in black, who was cutting them down two at a time with long slashes that not only broke their guards, but disemboweled them...

Suddenly the figure at the center held a long thin pipe to its lips, and a shrill, piercing whistle filled the air, steadily getting higher. Altaïr hastily stuffed two fingers into his ears, and crouched down, squeezing his eyes shut as the sound got , when it became too high for him to hear he forced one eye open and watched as all the guards around the black clad figure dropped, screaming inaudibly. With an ease born of practice, the Raven engaged her claws, flexed them, and began slaughtering her helpless opponants. When the last man stopped twitching, the whistle died, and the Raven stowed the pipe in her robes.

There was a loud 'RAWK' and a black shadow descended to the woman's wrist with something large in its mouth. It was another bird, a grey pigeon. Altaïr narrowed his eyes. _What?_

The woman turned 160° and looked right at him.

"Come to join the party?"

Altaïr didn't move. Didn't speak. He couldn't, not now, but slowly he stood. The Raven plucked the pigeon from the raven's beak, hissing at it as it tried to snap it back, and then tossed it onto the ground between them. "Poor creature. It never did anything wrong, and it never stood a chance, not that it mattered. Daedalus is a skilled hunter."

Altaïr clenched his fists as he looked at the dead pigeon, but still said nothing. The Raven chuckled. "You know, pigeons and Assassins are really similar. Both very insignificant, weak, and cowardly creatures, yet both are very easy to catch and train. And yet, for all that, they still think that they're something they are not..." She flicked her claws together and the raven let out another caw and flapped its wings to regain its perch.

"Eagles."

Altaïr looked up from the pigeon's broken body sharply. "What?" His fingers twitched towards his sword slightly but he stayed his hand.

"You heard me. Assassins are weak. They think they're important, and more then they are. They think they're eagles. Just like pigeons. And the difference between Ravens and Pigeons, and the difference between you and me, is I _am_ the real thing. I am a Raven. A _predator_. "

Altaïr reached behind him and grabbed a throwing knife without any warning. He fingered it for a heartbeat, and then hurled it at her throat, already reaching his arm back for another one as the first left his grip.

There was a clang and a loud squawk as Altaïr threw his third, and then she was gone, disappeared back into the smoke. All that was left was a heap of black feathers on the ground. Altaïr had hit the raven. He looked around, and heard nothing, so he advanced towards the prone body.

The knife was embedded in the raven's breast, unbroken, and so Altaïr tugged it free with a little difficulty, cleaned it, and returned it to its sheath alongside its brothers. Then, and only then, did he look for his true prey.

_She's gone._

The fires were still raging, but here and there, villagers and guards were banding together to dump bucket loads of water on them, sending huge gouts of steam into the air to mix with the smoke and birds. In the murk, another human being ran careened into him, but this one clamped onto both his shoulders and did not let go.

"Altaïr? _Altaïr_! Oh thank the _heavens_! I wasn't sure I'd find you, or _worse_, that the black demon had got to you first... Oh, Allah help us!"

Altaïr pulled the babbling man off of him and threw him to the ground, his blade extended, when he recognized the soot streaked face. "Rauf!"

Rauf took a moment to catch his breath, his arm clamped against his side. Altaïr could see the blood dripping between his fingers and felt a cold chill run down his spine. "Rauf, you're injured."

Rauf shook his head in between heaving breaths. "Its really just a scratch. She's done far worse to others..." He grimaced suddenly, his face contorting. Altaïr felt his own skin tingle. "At least let me wrap it so you don't bleed to death." He knelt, tearing off his sash as he did so, and wrapping it around the other man's torso several times, trying to ignore the darker spots already seeping through. He tied a knot in it and then stepped back. Rauf smiled. "My thanks, brother."

He stood, with Altaïr's help, and limped over to a charred bench. Altaïr sat too. "You said that _she_ did this. Where is the Raven?" Rauf grimaced again.

"Altaïr, its madness up there. The Master ordered everyone into the Citadel, and barred the gates, but she scaled them as easily as you or I would. we were forced to flee into the Keep, all but those who were too slow to keep up or wounded. We've all but lost ourselves to fear, and we _abandoned _the weaker ones. I managed to slip out just as she began slaughtering, but.." he indicated his wrapped injury and frowned. "Her claws _really_ hurt."

Altaïr clenched his fists. "I'll put a stop to this, Rauf, don't worry." He stood, but the novice tugging on his robes made him turn again. "Be careful," Rauf said, his dark eyes wide and glazed with pain. "_Please, _be careful.."

Altaïr didn't trust himself to speak, and instead, nodded, turning and running up the hill towards the massive fortress and Citadel he called his home.

-—-

**A/N: Its happened. I've finally become afflicted with that dreadful little mental monster they call Writer's Block. But I will overcome it! I will! ... It just might take some time... Thats why this chapter was one, not as well written or planned out and two, ended in what was to me, a cliffhanger. Super happy about the reviews, people, glad you all think I'm good, and I will strive to keep you all satified.. But for now... * grabs sword* I must face this 'Writer's Block! To arms!" * runs off in search of inspiration***


	6. Darkness becomes you–part one

**Ok, ok! here's a chapter-fragment bone to gnaw on while I battle that Writers Block! *grabs Masamune and vanishes with a "rawr!"**

Altaïr ran, his mind filled with turmoil. He heard the cry and looked up, just as a large raven attempted to claw his shoulder. Altaïr ducked, rolled, and kept running. Finally, he stood before the gates, once open and inviting, but now shut, with a dead man's corpse hanging off the flagpole as a warning. He could hear the distinct sounds of battle beyond, and knew he had to aid his brothers.

Altaïr swallowed his revulsion and began to climb.

Ravena watched with amusement as the Assassins scattered like roaches before her. She cut down another poorly armed man and observed his twitching, before she crushed his throat with her heel and sliced him open like a fish. The Assassin Master watched her, safe in his tower, frustrated and enraged, but unable to do more than shout at her as she decimated his forces. "Cease this slaughter!" And oh yes, her favourite, "We have done nothing to instigate your hostility!"

She ignored him and drove her claws into the belly of a man wielding a sword. Jerking him around so the kill was visible to the old fool in the fortress, she yanked her arm out of the corpses body and held up her prize—The man's heart. With a grin, she offered it to him, then dropped it on the blood streaked ground and turned to face her next opponent. Black ravens dived and swooped around the attacking Assassins at her command—pecking and clawing and driving them mad.

Al Mualim watched the young woman slaughter novice and veteran Assassin alike, and it made him ill. She seemed to delight in it, death; the massive viper–like grin on her face never slipped, and as the pools of blood grew and deepened, her eyes began to shine with a radiant light that made the hairs on every man's necks stand on end.

_What was she?_

Blood ran down from the tips of her claws as she raised them to her mouth and slowly, deliberately, licked each one clean. Her golden eyes seemed to flare as she looked the rest of the Assassins sent to die on those steel blades in their eyes, noting the fear and terror welling like dark pools in overflow.

_Golden eyed blood drinker. Slaughterer of men. What is this black clad girl, that she so easily takes our lives? We are Assassins! Our morale is unbreakable..._

Ravena let a smirk curl one side of her mouth and took a single step forwards. That was all it took for the Assassins strong morale and training to desert them, and they fled her, scattering to the winds. Her black ravens pursued them for a while, but then returned; faithful creatures. Ravena turned to the Master, pale and silent in his tower. She raised her hand and a claw and pulled her hood off her face. With a croak, a raven settled in her black hair, but she brushed it away.

"Where is your Brotherhood now, _Master?_"

Al Mualim shook his head. "Why do you do this? We have no quarrel with you!"

Ravena's face twisted. "I quarrel with _all_ Assassins! You should all _burn_!" She flexed her claws and paced a moment, then stopped. A halting, rageful laugh bubbled from her lips, a laugh bordering on the insane. A grin split her face, at odds with her voice and her eyes. "Speaking of which," she hissed, reaching into her robes, that sick, sick smile still plastered onto her face, and withdrew a set of Assassin robes. "aren't you short a _brother_?"

Ravena tossed the bundle of bloodstained robes onto the ground where immediately the ravens left her body and began to fight over it, dragging the burnt, mangled piece of fabric into the air and tearing it to vicious shreds. Al Mualim's expression darkened. "Why did you kill him?" He yelled down, his fists clenched against the stone edge of the window, "Why?!"

Altaïr slipped. He didn't know how, only that he had reached for a hand hold, grabbed it, and then it was no longer there. Nothing was there. He was falling. But his training as an Assassin wasn't just for show. He managed to snag a ledge further down, and then find another way to the top. When he stood at last atop the gate, he realized why he couldn't hold onto the handholds near the top—the top of the gate was swamped in blood. Blood and corpses littered the parapets and Altaïr had to pick his way through to get to a gaurd tower. Altaïr quickly looked at his hands, painted crimson; and then stepped back to avoid stepping on a dead body.

_This is madness. She... She's slaughtered them all..._

And as he picked his way through fallen brothers to the ladder, and then slid down it onto ground level, he wondered what it was _for. _In the distance, he could hear Al Mualim shouting.

As he rounded the bend, he stopped in his tracks. Ravena. The teenager was standing in the training ring, where long ago, or maybe even that morning, novices would show off their skills and strive to best their fellows, all in the hope that one day, they would be made Assassins. Now the ring was choked with dead bodies of Assassin and novice both, and only one person remained alive.


	7. Darkness becomes you–part two

**A/N: alright! this is the second half of chapter 6, and hopefully the end to that dreadful writers block, but we'll see! :)**

Altaïr watched as the teen pulled something from beneath her robes, held it up while she addressed Al Mualim, and then she tossed it onto the ground in front of the fortress. It was a bundle of sooty black and white robes, and as soon as they hit the ground, the multitude of ravens —both on and around her, descended and began fighting over them. They dragged the dusty article of clothing into the air and battled for possession of the fabric, screaming and croaking and tearing at it, a mass of flapping wings and flashing claws.

Altaïr's breath caught in his lungs as the robe was revealed, burnt, streaked with soot and blood, but recognizable by the shortened sleeve.

_Malik... That's Malik's robe!_

Ice slid through his veins, and Altaïr clenched his palms to stop his fingers from trembling, as the ravens abandoned Malik's robes and let them drop back to earth, destroyed. Something twisted inside, and then he was moving–running, a scream threatening to tear through his lungs and throat as he leapt and tackled the slim murderess to the ground, his hidden blade already extended and plunging towards her throat. She reacted with preternatural speed, however, whirling and flicking her claws up and catching the brunt of his thrust against the steel as she fell. They grappled in the dust for a moment in silence until, with a sound of squealing metal, she forced his fist–and his blade away and kicked him off of her.

Altaïr landed on his back a good three feet away, the wind knocked out of him. How had she managed to throw his attack like that?

And deflecting his blade in the heat of the kill—not even the toughest Templar guard could have done that.. He rolled onto his belly and tried to catch his breath while his head rung from the impact. Above him, a raven screamed.

"I wondered when you would come back to take revenge on your friend."

Altaïr snapped his eyes open and forced himself onto his knees. He glared up into the shining eyes of the young woman and fought the urge to avert his gaze.

_Her eyes... _

Altaïr stood, and regarded his enemy, his blade once again at the ready.

She grinned and attacked, slashing at him with her glittering claws. Altaïr dodged them, hearing the wind whistle along their edges. She was dangerous, He'd have to keep away from those...

Keeping his eyes on her, he unsheathed his short blade and unconsciously entered a fighting stance. Ravens cawed and screeched above them, their audience, as Ravena jumped towards him again, a snarl distorting her fair face, her golden eyes blazing.

Altaïr dodged back again and then cried out as the tip of a claw sliced beneath his left eye. He disengaged from her to assess the damage, which was minimal. However now his pride had been injured, and Altaïr's blood was seething. He spun his short blade in a tight circle while he waited for her next attack.

Ravena grinned, and swiftly sliced upwards, the same attack that had ultimatly ended Malik's life, expecting the Assassin to fall, his throat cut. What she didn't expect was the sharp pain in her side that left her breathless. She glanced down, and caught the last few inches of the Assassin's wristblade retracting back into its sheath, her blood shining on its surface, the Assassin in question leaping out of range of her claws.

_Damn, that HURTS!_

Altaïr skipped backwards and ducked another swipe that had gone completely off target—her wound was affecting her aim. She stumbled, and Altaïr's heart soared, but then she just shook her head and snarled at him, her gold eyes bright as ever—and then she swatted him like an irritating fly—sending him sprawling for the second time. Pain lanced up his right side, travelling all the way to his shoulder, and as he lay there, the feeling seemed to burn through his robes and sear into his flesh. Altaïr remembered Kavas's corpse, torn open, and the unfortunate Templar, stabbed to the brain on one of her steel nails... He could feel warmth spreading from the area of affliction and closed his eyes, wincing when movement jostled his shoulder. _I'm bleeding... _

There was a loud flapping sound, and then an even louder 'RAWK' right in his ear. Altaïr sat up, his eyes wide, gritting his teeth from the pain. He stole a look at his side, and swallowed. Three neat, long, curvy slashes ran from half way down his right side to up his right arm. They ripped through his robes and his belt, and as he stood, he tossed the ruined leather belt away. Immediately he felt lighter, even though his arm throbbed and he couldn't move it higher than mid ribcage.

He turned to Ravena, and glared at her, mentally promising her a slow and painful death.

_You will beg me for death, murderess... And I won't give it to you..._

The raven that had stirred him flew off, croaking. Ravena tilted her head in acknowledgment of his expression, and Altaïr was pleased that her face was pale and drawn. "You look angry. Was it something I said?" Altaïr's response was to charge, his short blade aimed for her heart, forcing her to defend again. He fought with mindless fury, attacking her weak side again and again, but like that Templar captain, his weapon was turned away every time. Finally, with a sigh, she grinned and knocked the short blade from his grasp, where it landed point first in the ground. Altaïr backed away, reaching for his sword, a scowl on his face.

_She's TOYING with me..._

Blood ran from the small but serious wound in her side, but she stood taller and regarded him coolly as he drew the long blade. "Now you die!" He snarled, raising the sword in the air and bringing it down.

Ravena sighed and twisted away, letting her claws run the length of the sword before it clanged against the ground. Altaïr's eyes went wideas he realized she had evaded him and he whirled, just as a long steel trail of fire ran up his chest, ending at his throat. He lifted his hands to his chest, and they came away wet.

_Blood? _

"Hmm," he heard someone say faintly, "I missed." And then he blacked out.

Al Mualim saw Altaïr fall.

_No, not Altaïr too_! He turned around and rushed to the stairs, where he was stopped by no less than twenty other Assassins. "Master, its not safe!"

Al Mualim sagged in the grips of so many and returned to the window to see... _No, was it even possible?!_

"This Assassin will live to fight another day!" The Raven stood over the fallen Assassin for a moment, then walked away. Al Mualim was stunned. _Perhaps she has a concience after all..._

Ravena smirked, turning away from the fortress and slipping her black hood back over her face. She turned to leave, feeling the bloodlust leaving her.

"Wait..." The croak came from the man laying on the ground. She slowly walked back to him and looked down on his half conscious face.

"You should rest. Wounds from these," she engaged her claws, and wagged them above his face, "don't ever recover unless the victims get plenty of rest." She turned away again, feeling elated and sad at the same time without knowing why.

"Why did you let me live?"

Ravena stopped again and looked over her shoulder at the Assassin. Her heart skipped a beat and she froze up inside.

His eyes were a dark brooding gold, and they were glowing. He narrowed his eyes at her, and then repeated the question. "You could have killed me. Why didn't you?" She pondered that, quickly regaining her icy composure. "I didn't feel like it."

There was a smouldering, penetrating hatred in the Assassins eyes, and it made her own irises glow in response. His lips flattened into a hard line. "When I'm recovered I'm going to hunt you down and kill you."

Ravena could feel a small smile creeping onto her face. "I'm surprised, Altaïr. Vengeance? Darkness quite becomes you. Well, I suppose I should be afraid, but... I look forwards to our next meeting, _petit_ _aigle_."

_Little Eagle..._

And as she turned and walked away, Altaïr slipped back into said darkness, and was washed away.


	8. Bureau of the Dead

**This is a chapter that's different. A bit random, and a bit sad :( sorry, sorry.. I'll let you read... Don't say I didn't warn you.. randomness ahead! **

Darkness quite becomes you...

_He's still feverish.._

Darkness becomes you...

_Those wounds must be festering, my god! _

_What? What is it? _

_Look at the length of the cuts on him! He's lucky he survived!_

_Well he won't if we can't bring that fever down..._

"Malik.."

_Oh no... _

_What?_

_He's hallucinating._

"Malik... Raven... "

_Get that fever down or— oh, hello Master!_

_How is he?_

"Ravens..."

_Babbling, sir._

_Hmm._

"Malik... What do I do?"

_He seems to be experiencing something from his past._

_Or maybe he's asking for help?_

_Who cares? If that fever doesn't break it won't matter! He'll be DEAD!_

_Master, we have Altaïr in good hands..._

_Alright, let me know of any progress._

"Fire... "

_So how do you intend to break his fever?_

_Um..._

_You don't have a plan, do you?_

_I do! _

_What is it then?_

_Dunk him in the river?_

_...Really...?_

_...no..._

"Dates..."

_What's he going on about now? Hand me that rag. He's burning up._

"Hasan... Dates..."

_What? _

_Hasan! Focus! He's just rambling, and doesn't know what he's saying... _

_Pass me the bucket, I'll wash this gash._

"Date..."

_Oh, for the love of Allah.._

"Lovely date squares..."

_I'm not sure I like dealing with fever patients, Rama._

_Hasan, welcome to my world._

"Ate them all... The lovely lovely squares..."

_Can't you give him some poppy seed or something?_

_Poppy seed is for the elderly. And don't you mean Opium? If so, then no._

_Well do something, Rama, h__e's beginning to annoy me..._

"...I didn't eat them, Master.. Honest..."

_Of course, Altaïr, of course. When can we go _home_?_

_Another six hours, Hasan, be patient..._

"Hasan did... He ate all the date squares..."

_Oh! I remember now! I got a hiding that day because of you, you devil!_

"Hasan...ate...them... ...ZZzzz..."

_Shush, Hasan! Look!_

_What?_

_He's sleeping. Peacefully._

_So the fever..._

_Must be on its way down._

_Thank Allah, I don't think I could take any more of Altaïr's confessions..._

Altaïr opened his eyes and he was in a sunlit Bureau courtyard. _What? _There were birds chirping, and people laughing and talking faintly outside the walls. He looked up and the grate was wide open, admitting the warm sunshine onto his face.

_Ah_, he thought, closing his eyes and quietly absorbing the heat, _This is wonderful. Why haven't I been dispatched here sooner? _

As he lay there, someone wandered out of the cool Bureau itself and watched him silently, his brown eyes gentle but full of sadness.

Altaïr opened his eyes. He was being watched. He turned to the Bureau archway, and to the man standing there, and blinked.

"Malik?"

The man gave a small smile and nodded and Altaïr could feel his eyes pricking, but he held the tears back; he was a man, wasn't he?

Malik stepped out of the shadows and into the sunshine, and Altaïr had to shield his eyes as he stood right above him, right in the sun, grinning. Altaïr felt a smile stretching his own face, it was infectious, this joy at seeing his friend again. He stood, and clasped him in a tight embrace.

"Malik!"

"Altaïr!"

Malik wrapped his own arms around his friend, for death had healed him of every imperfection, and hugged his brother back. Then, he realized that Altaïr was shaking. He held him at arms length and gazed into his eyes, concern in his own. "Altaïr, what ever is the matter?"

Altaïr looked up, and seeing the soft compassion in his friend's eyes, finally broke down, letting the tears spill from his eyes and fall, fall for so many things.

"I'm so sorry... So, so, sorry..."

Malik tilted his head but let him cry. Finally, he placed a warm hand on his sorrowful friend's shoulder and shook it a little. "Altaïr, you have nothing to be sorry for. It wasn't your fault."

"It is my fault you're dead. I left you, Malik... I..."

Altaïr looked up again and his tawny eyes were so full of regret and pain, it made Malik twist inside and want to cry.

He put on a smirk instead and crossed his arms. "Listen to me, you novice," he began, and that did some good—Altaïr took a couple of deep breaths and wiped his eyes as Malik continued. "It was my choice to stay behind that night, and nothing you could have done would have changed the outcome."

"Malik.." Altaïr sighed, and then looked back at the sunny Bureau courtyard, knowing now where he was.

"Well, I at least wish I could have died protecting you from that monster..."

Malik smiled again. "Died? You think you're dead?" His smile became a full blown grin at Altaïr's bewilderment. "You're not dead, Altaïr." He clapped the other man on his back and laughed.

Altaïr's dark ochre eyes widened, and he stammered, trying to understand, to make sense of it all. "But.. I... She... The claws... Wait, if I'm not dead, than why are _you_ here?"

Malik shrugged, glancing back towards the shadowy Bureau archway. Altaïr followed his gaze, and frowned. "Why don't we go in there, where its cooler?"

Malik's smile faded, and his eyes became pools of gentle sadness again. "Because this is the Bureau of the dead, that's why. And this is where we part."

"It's a Bureau, Malik."

He shook his head, that strange, peaceful, heartbreaking expression still on his face, and began to walk away, and Altaïr felt a wrenching in his soul that wasn't just heartbreak. Something was pulling him..._ back to life?_

"Wait, Malik!" he blurted out, as the world around him began to lose its clarity, "What do I do? About her? About Ravena?"

Malik's eyes were alight with... Happiness? – as he passed through the archway and turned to Altaïr. Everything around him was shifting, distorting; a white fog was encroaching on everything, covering the walls the floor, the sun... Malik's voice echoed out from the mist, as Altaïr struggled to stay upright... To stay in the sun, at peace...

_When the time comes, you will know what to do. Trust your heart, Altaïr, and farewell, my brother._

When Altaïr awoke, he wrapped his arms around himself and cried. He could still remember Malik's gentle touch and his firm insistence that he wasn't to blame...

_Oh, but I was, Malik... I was!_

That sunlit patch of Heaven—for what else could it be— seemed worlds away as Altaïr lay on the pallet. He missed the peace and the sun and... "Trust my heart... How can I? I don't know what I'm doing..."

An informer walked past the room, stopped, poked his head in, and gaped. "Altaïr? You're alive?!" Altaïr nodded. The informer rushed off to spread the news that almost-Master-Assassin- Altaïr was alive. (Yes it was _that_ informer).

Al Mualim was soon at his side, telling him everything that had happened whilst he was 'sleeping.'

"She just left? Just like that?"

Al Mualim frowned. "Do you remember anything of your final interaction? From what I could see, it appeared to be quite... Civil."

Altaïr frowned also, remembering. "_Petit Aigle. _ She called me—"

"A small eagle, yes."

"she also likened Assassins to Pigeons."

"That is her way. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten."

Altaïr narrowed his ochre eyes. "How is it you know so much about the Raven?"

Al Mualim turned his unblinking eyes onto his pupil and took a halting breath. "I knew her father."


	9. Windows to the Soul

Chapter 9: Windows to the soul

**Okay... Another thanks is in order, to all those who have stuck with me as each chapter becomes ridiculously longer.. And again to the reviewers! Thanks for helping me inspire myself! Even if you say a few words.. I'm happy :)**

Ravena paused her walking and looked behind her.

_Was somebody following her?_

With a toss of her long black hair, she continued down the grimy Acre street, following her nose, and the tattered map in her hand. The tannery was an equally filthy building, a bleak, grey thing that squatted on the corner like a large toad, unsightly and bloated. Ravena wrinkled her nose as she approached it; the smell preceded the place by a mile– maybe even two. Raising her hood and wrapping her cowl over her mouth and nose, she pushed open the door and went inside.

The tannery's innards were stained with all sorts of shades, as was the man who oversaw the vats. He approached her with a stunned look in his eye, as if he had never seen someone so clean enter his shop before. It was most likely the case.

Ravena spoke with the air of one who was accustomed to getting what she wanted, and without problems. "I'm looking for someone." She held up the map. Scrawled in the corner was a few lines in red ink, and a name.

The tanner blinked and shuffled over. "That map there... Where'd you get it?" He narrowed his eyes as Ravena folded it and stowed it within her robes. "It matters not how I acquired it. Only that it led me to one who has the answers I seek."

The tanner's eyes glinted suddenly. "My information won't be free." Ravena smoothly opened her palm and showed him the coins hidden in it. "I can afford it."

At the sight of the gold, the grubby man licked his lips, but then shook his head. "I could get in hot water with the guards by telling you what I know. How am I supposed to know you're not a spy?" Ravena pulled out a small velvet satchel and withdrew three more coins. "For your peace of mind." She offered them.

The tanner looked at the coins in the strangers hand, then palmed them. "Whad'dya want to know?"

Ravena slipped the satchel beneath the neck of her cloak and crossed her arms. "Where is Gregor Smith?"

The tanner's face went through a slew of emotion. "The cobbler? What you want with him?" Ravena shook her head. "His whereabouts."

The tanner thought for a moment more. "That'll cost you extra. I ain't going into details without proper recompense for damage in advance. Gregor is a violent bastard, and he'll screw anyone who crosses him.."

Ravena made a hissing noise but drew out seven more coins, and deposited them into his grubby grip. The tanner's fingers closed over hers. And when she looked up, his face was close enough that she could smell the cheap wine on his breath. "I wasn't talking about _money_."

With a whirl she revealed her other hand, hidden beneath her cloak thus far, and armed with the three deadly blades. "Too bad. Money's all scum like you'll ever get from me. Now let go of me, and tell me what I need to know before I lose my patience."

The tanner let her hand go and took a step back, eying the claws. "Gregor isn't in his shop this week." Ravena frowned, her golden eyes glittering. "How convenient."

The tanner's eyes widened as she brought one close to his dirty, pockmarked face. "If you are lying, I will kill you slowly and very painfully. Do I make myself clear?" The poor man nodded vigorously. "If he's not at his shop, he'll be..." The man suddenly turned beet red. Ravena tapped her claws on the table. "Out with it."

"At.. At a Cathouse."

Ravena was silent for a moment. "I see." The tanner's eyes widened. "You can't seriously be thinking of going in. Only prostitutes can get enter without arousing suspicion— and only clients leave!" He reached for her arm again, then thought better of it and threw his hands into the air. "I would advise against it. Wait 'till Gregor returns to his shop." Ravena's golden eyes gleamed and she turned back towards the door. "Thank you for your time and information. It was much valued. I _won't_ forget you." And leaving the tanner standing alone, she swept out of the shop and was gone.

"Please sirs, just a little money... My family is sick and dying. Please, all we ask for is for a few coins..."

Ravena once again was walking the Acre streets, mulling over her next move. _Gregor visited a Cathouse, did he?_

It was not the most pleasant of paths her mission could have taken... But it was manageable. Up ahead, she could see anemaciated woman petitioning people for money, begging them with all her heart for a coin, a loaf of bread, anything. Her clothes were tattered and filthy and the light of despair was in her eyes. Ravena sighed. The Saracen–Crusader war was reaching farther than the battlefields, And yet, did the King open his private granaries? No. Did Salah Al'din feed his people with the fish and the dates and things he ammassed for his army? No.

As she walked past, she saw the poor woman unwisely petition a thug, who grabbed her and threw her onto the ground, whilst his companions looked on and laughed. Fury rose in Ravena at their cruelty, laced with a distinct sense of irony...

The thug careened into a wall, and collapsed, before the others could discern the source, and the poor woman was being helped up by a black clad stranger._ A soldier? No, a woman!_

With a growl, the thug stood, shaking his fist at her. "I'll teach you some manners!" Ravena felt an overwhelming sense of deja vu...

_No, these are innocents, not Templars, I don't have to kill them._

She placed her hand on her hip, and hid her claws. "Oh? Beating on a defenceless woman makes me angry. _You're_ the one's who need better manners!" The thug raised his fist, but Ravena casually raised her other hand and crossed her arms. "You don't want to fight me." The man's mouth opened in shock. "What kind of monster _are_ you?"

Ravena didn't answer. She didn't know, herself.

"Get out of here." The thugs didn't argue, bolting down the alleyways and disappearing in the growing crowd. The poor lady shyly approached her.

"Ma'am, I thank you for that.. It's a hard life we lead, beggars. It wasn't the first time I've been tumbled over, and it most likely won't be me last. Still, you've saved me a broken bone or two, which means my children won't starve—at least for one more night."

She turned and beckoned to a shadowy corner, and then a small grubby face peeked out, followed by another. At another hand gesture, the urchins raced over to their mother and hid beneath her skirts. She chided them. "Marie, Alex, enough o' that!" Then she took her children by their hands, smiled at Ravena again and began to stumble away.

Ravena stood there, frozen, eyes wide watching the little children tug on their mother's hands and giggle at shopkeepers, and all of a sudden was thrust back into her own past.

They lived in the middle district of Paris, right in the midst of everything. Ravena's mother was a ingenue singer at the Opera house, and was as pretty as an angel. Her father did a myriad of things, but mostly worked as an architect, helping design and oversee the buildings that they fantasized about, better banks, houses with multiple levels, grand cathedrals... He could build it all. The house they all lived in was grand, majestic, and very large. They had little servants; a cook and a maid, and a coachman, but that was all. Ravena grew up playing by herself, alone, either in that empty house, or on the street around it. She had no other friends but the ones she imagined, and other children were afraid of the pale girl with the gold eyes and long black hair. She did lead a happy life though... Until that day.

_"mère, père, regarde ce que j'ai!"_

_Mother, Father, look what I have!_

Ravena ran into the room where both her father and her mother were, reading. She opened her cupped hands to reveal a butterfly, contentedly opening and closing its wings in her palm. Her mother laughed and kissed her cheek, then returned to her book while the eager girl went to show her father. Erik placed his book down on the side table, and took his daughters hands in his own, much larger ones. He looked at the butterfly and then up into Ravena's shining eyes.

_"Quelle belle créature délicate, ma chérie. vous devez le retourner him domicile."_

_What a beautiful, delicate creature, my darling. You must return him to his home._

Ravena sighed but gently closed her hands over the butterfly once more and left the room to take the creature back outside and set it free. Erik chuckled, gently squeezing his wife's hand, and they shared a look. _Ravena, Ravena. Always curious..._

If Ravena had known that later that night her life would be shattered, she would never have let that butterfly go. Instead, she would have begged it to take her with it...

_réveille-toi, mon précieux angel! nous devons aller._

_Awake, my precious angel! We must go._

She opened her eyes to see her father shaking her. His golden eyes were glowing– which only happened when he was deeply agitated. Ravena rubbed her own sleepily. "_Père? ce qui se passe?"_

_Father, what's happening?_

Erik was pacing, running his hands through his dark hair and mumbling to himself. What Ravena heard made her shiver. Something was very wrong.

_"Ils ont demandé ... Ils ont demandé, et moi, comme un bon soldat .. NON! Comme un fou fou, je.."_

Ravena slipped out of bed and stood, a strange feeling growing in her chest..

_They asked ... They asked, and I, as a good soldier .. NO! Crazy like a fool, I ..._

_"Pére?"_

_Father?_

Erik stopped pacing and turned to his seven year old daughter. Something passed over his face and he leaned down to hug her.

_"Ravena, mon précieux ange. Je suis désolé de vous réveiller, mais nous devons aller quelque part, maintenant."_

_Ravena, my precious angel, I am sorry for waking you, but we have to go somewhere–now._

Ravena nodded, confused. As Erik led her through the halls, she frowned and tugged on his sleeve. "_Père, où est Mère? est-ce she ne viendra pas avec nous?"_

Erik sighed and spoke in English, a language that Ravena had only heard a few Parisians use, and then only fleetingly, as if it was an expensive delicacy.

"No. Your mother will not be joining us."

Ravena was rushed past the living room, where she saw something that would stay with her for the rest of her life—her mother, lying on the floor, in a spreading pool of blood. At that moment, Erik scooped her up and ran with her, out of the house and away, away...

Ravena was crying and screaming in rapid french, pounding on her father's chest, but Erik ignored her, and just continued running.

_"Mère! Père, Mère est blessée! Nous devons y retourner! Père, Père!"_

_Mother! Father, Mother is hurt! We must go back! Father, Father!_

Finally he slowed and stopped, and gently set his daughter down. "_Ce doit être assez bon."_

_This should be good enough._

And before Ravena's horrified eyes, he withdrew a long, shining knife.

Ravena remembered fear. She remembered tears and pleas, but nit what was said. Her father spared her life that night, turning around and leaving her in the darkness, and by the time she found her way home, flames were devouring everything she had known from the inside.

_Mère... Père... Mother... Father..._

The life she had known was gone. Ravena cried and cried, not knowing, not understanding. What had happened? Where was her Father? Why did he want to kill her? And her Mother... Why?

That was the real question. Why?

She slept in the gutter that night. When dawn came, the house was destroyed. Ravena walked through the smouldering ruins, searching for something, anything...

She found her mother. A corpse, blackened and burnt until nothing but the room it was found in was recognizable. Her first real intimate brush with the power of death. She walked on. Her room was obliterated, all her lovely books and toys were ash now, nothing more. There was no food, no clothing, and no love to be had in this dark, sooty, tomb. She left it. She turned to the bustle of the streets and chose life.

And she lived.

People still avoided her, and she was fine with that—in fact she preferred it; it allowed her to slip through the crowds and streets much like a ghost, or a spectre, and avoided being seen.

But as she lived day to day—and as she grew older and wiser to the workings of the Parisian street life, she realized that there were people _watching _for that kind of thing.

They payed special attention to the urchins of the streets, and her too, when they could catch glimpses of her, which was not often. They could disappear better than she could, and blend in with walls, doors, trees... They were peculiar people. They were Assassins, but she was not to know that until _much_ later.

The Assassins watched her for a specific reason—they never believed Erik's story of killing his wife and child. And one day, when Ravena was feeding the black ravens that always seemed to follow her in a small side street, their suspicions were confirmed.

"_Oiseau noir de la mort, Chansons de sang et de carnage, Vous annoncer la fin du monde. Pour les soldats nuit sans la fin..."_

They were on her like starving wolves on a rabbit, two of them, gripping her forearms and scattering her birds. They spoke English instead of French, and one had a knife, brandishing it like a conductors baton.

"I told you!" One hissed, his blue eyes hard, "I told you the bastard's kid would sing. Never mind her eyes. He'll pay for deceiving us." The other tilted his head and appraised her. "I don't know, Pieter, she's too small."

They both had black and red hoods, and the one with the knife had a nasty scar across his nose. He held the knife up to her face, scowling at his companion. "Your mother is too small. What's your name?"

Ravena was scared, but she was no longer seven years old and no fool—living on the streets had hardened her and made her cunning. So she opened her mouth and just sang again—

"_Oiseau noir de la mort, Chansons de sang et de carnage, Vous annoncer la fin du monde. Pour les soldats nuit sans la fin!"_

_Black bird of death, Songs of blood and gore, You announce the end of the world. Soldiers for the night without end!_

It was the little tune she made up that told the ravens she was going to feed them scraps of pork or other fine things, and they took it as such, flapping down to land on her arms and shoulders as per usual. However, when they found their paths blocked by two large men they became agitated and possessive, and an agitated raven is a dangerous creature. A flock of them can bring a man down, so they say. They chased the Assassins out of the alley and returned to Ravena, where she stroked each one's head and rewarded them each with a large gob of horse meat from the slaughterhouse two blocks behind.

After that incident, one year later, when she was eleven years of age, she found her father's workshop. In the cellar beneath their house, lay the secrets to everything. Ravena spent hours poring over her fathers journals, aided only by continual candlelight and lamplight, murmuring and teaching strange words to herself, like: _Chevalier de l'ordre du Temple, Confraternité des Assassins_, and a single phrase, written again and again, scrawled like a madman's dogma, in all colours of ink—

_Rien n'est vrai, tout est permis..._

_Nothing is true; Everything is permitted..._

Ravena slid the journal shut and laid her head down on it. It was too much. Too much far too soon. She was still a little girl. She needed her father... And he.. He... Unbidden, she began to cry, silent streams streaking down her face and puddling on the journal's tooled leather surface.

Something glittered out of the corner of her eye, and Ravena looked up, still sobbing quietly. Across the room, there was a large ironbound chest, and a piece of paper was sticking out of it, a golden seal winking at her from the edge. She sniffed and stood.

Taking a candle holder with her, she walked over to the huge thing, and tugged gently on the triangle of paper. There was a muffled tearing sound, so Ravena wormed her slim fingers under the lid of the wood chest instead, and heaved. With a loud thud, the lid banged against the floor and Ravena stepped back to avoid getting her toes squashed. The interior of the chest was mainly full of papers, strange objects and knickknacks, and things she couldn't even begin to guess the uses of. But what interested her most was that official looking document with the seal— a letter.

She pulled off the top of the pile and began to read. And the more she read the more she realized she was reading a warrant for her execution. Certain sentences jumped out at her, made her shiver.

_conspiricies with templiers ont été découverts..._

_Conspiricies with Templars were discovered..._

_votre femme et votre enfant ont été trouvés complices._

_Your wife and child were found complicit..._

_l'autorité qui vous est donné pour assassiner le deux traîtres.._

_Authority is given to you to assassinate these two traitors..._

_nous attendons votre rapport, Erik._

_We await your report, Erik._

The rest of the page was filled with signatures, including...

Her fathers.

Ravena's vision began to blur and she fell to her knees, her cheeks wet with tears and the missive clenched in her hand. _Père... He was told to kill me.._

Slowly the tears dried on her face as she reread the words authorizing her death again and again. A ball of hot tension grew in her belly. The men that attacked her as she fed her ravens. _Confraternité des Assassins..._

_Assassins_. They had killed her mother and taken her life from her.

The ball grew, bigger than her, until she was in it, protected, and no longer mourned her old life. With a grim frown, she held the letter over the flame of her candle and watched with rapt attention as the paper burned and the pretty gold seal melted into nothing...

She would destroy them all.

–—

**Alright... So that's a little background info.. More than Al Mualim gives XP. Once again, thanks for reading this totally random story and making me feel good at it XD**


	10. Rest up, little Eagle

**A thousand apologies my readers D: There cannot be any excuses for my absence... (Yet I'm going to give one ;) With my writings, its got to be perfect. That, or nearly. And since OARW was my first, (forgive the analogy) virgin story, AND has such awesome reviews, it HAS TO BE PERFECT! I WILL EXPECT NOTHING LESS D: but lately, I've not had that -HEY! HEY! HEY YOU! YES, YOU! YEAH! GO WRITE OARW! YES, NOW, WHADDYA THINK I MEANT, NEXT WEEK? NOW, YA LAZY PROCRASTINATOR!- voice in my head-( yes, I DO get that voice, or something like it.. My imagination kicking my brain in the face and telling me to stop watching here comes honey boo boo and go do something PRODUCTIVE. (That show FREAKS ME OUT.) so... If this chapter seems not as well written as the others, OOC or stuff, I apologize again... Its being written without a burst of inspiration to fuel it. Please, READ and REVIEW!**

-—-

Altaïr paced along the wall, clenching and unclenching his fist, working the muscles in his injured arm and side. He would need to keep the tendons moving, so that they knitted properly. He remembered nothing during his fever, only that he had lost to the Raven, and she had spared his life. His wounds had become infected however, and it was only by the skills of the informers that he managed to keep his arm at all. Altaïr resolved to be more compassionate in his dealings with them in future missions. He gazed out at the courtyard below, where the bloodstains were still visible, black smears against the ground. He clenched his fist again, this time in anger.

_I lost._

His blind hunger for vengeance nearly killed him. She toyed with him as easily as a cat plays with a mouse before it kills and devours it, and had he been any slower, he too would be nothing but a corpse on the ground; an irremovable stain on the stones of his home. Altaïr gritted his teeth as the muscles in his side and arm protested the abuse, but didn't loosen up.

_Ravena_.

The demoness had a name. Somehow it humanized her, made her seem more vulnerable. He would use that against her. She couldn't be invincible; she bled, just like he did. And with a _name_...

"_Ravena_. Ravena, Ravena...Ravena."

Altaïr tested the name, gingerly picking at it and examining it thoroughly like an unfamiliar weapon, or a piece of unsavoury fruit. It was easy to pronounce, but Altaïr frowned as he committed it to memory. Giving the Raven a name gave her a _soul_- a lost, twisted, tortured soul, but a soul nonetheless. And Altaïr did not want to equate that monster who killed in cold blood and then returned to bathe herself in the blood of the warm with anything that could be redeemed in the afterlife...

"Altaïr!"

He glanced up. An informer was beckoning him. Altaïr sighed.

_Bedtime_...

Slowly he walked back to the sick hall, feeling like he was willingly imprisoning himself, and slid back into his bed. The informer bustled around, like an overprotective mother bird, tending to his bandages and washing down his forehead to ensure the fever did not return. With the majority of his wounds closed and mending the informers were positive that Altaïr would heal up without any complications— that was _if_ he refrained from running, and jumping, and climbing ridiculously tall buildings and then leaping off the same buildings into not-so-soft beds of hay—basically everything he was itching to do again, he was _not allowed to do._

Altaïr fidgeted in his bed. "How much longer?"

He croaked, his voice rough from being unused. The informer just sighed, rolled his eyes when his back was turned, and thanked Allah his shift was nearly over. "Two more weeks. Then you can go back to work." Altair let out a growl of frustration. Two weeks! Two weeks of mindlessly staring at the ceiling, counting the fruit flies that buzzed around his food, then counting the ones he caught and killed... He would go _mad_ by then... "Is it possible you miscounted? Maybe its only a week and a half. Or one week. Or—"

The informer sighed again, this time in irritation, and turned to face his charge, cutting him off mid babble. "You will be able to return to work in two weeks. No more, no less. We did not miscount. If we did, it would only be detrimental to your recovery, and you would be bedridden for _longer_." The assassin only glared at the ceiling. "I'm so _bored_." As the informer gathered his belongings, he shook his head. "Use that as time to think, Altaïr. This is a blessing in disguise. Your mind is just too clouded by anger to see it yet."

Altaïr childishly mimicked the informer as he left, then flopped back onto the pillows. If only he could have killed that Ravena. He wouldn't be lying in bed like a dead fish, that was for sure!

Altaïr growled again and closed his eyes, remembering.

The Raven stood over him like a wolf to its kill. Victorious. He expected at any moment to feel the biting sting of her sword, or the liquid flame-kiss across his throat from those damned claws. But she just stood there, breathing, relishing. And then, he heard, as if in a dream, her voice. "This Assassin will live to fight another day!" She wasn't going to take his life after all?

She stood over him, her black hair whipping in the wind, appearing as a demon or god to his wavering, blurred vision. He tried to call to the vicious creature of both light and darkness, as it turned away but his voice stuck in his throat and all he could manage was a harsh rasp. "Wait..."

She returned, her hood up, now safely concealing most of her features. "You should rest." In his exhausted state, she seemed almost tender. "Wounds from these..." She passed her bloody claws before his face once again, and stifled a laugh as his eyes tried to follow them. At least... He _thought_ she did..And then he winced as she tapped his shoulder. "Won't heal unless you get plenty of rest."

He again struggled with his thick tongue. "Why... Why did you let me live..?" He saw her pause and turn again, looking small and unsure. Or that was his imagination again? But the expression that passed over her face when he tried to check her true intentions was not in his imaginations. All the hate and callous anger, the cunning and cruelty and the shells that she had built up around herself stripped away, and her eyes glowed, almost involuntarily. He took advantage of her momentary weakness. "You could have killed me. Why.. Why didn't you?"

Almost instantaneously, he watched her reform her shields, watched her yellow eyes dull and darken, and the mask reappear. "I didn't feel like it." He tried moving, and it sent sharp claws of agony up his side, arm and chest. "When I'm recovered, I'm going to hunt you down and kill you." A mocking smirk crept up one side of her flawless face. "I'm surprised you haven't said this sooner. Vengeance. Darkness _quite_ becomes you, Altaïr." She stood. "I suppose I'm supposed to be afraid, but, well I never _was_ one for archetypes." She grinned. "I look forwards to our next meeting... _petit aigle."_

And she walked away, the last thing he saw before falling unconscious.

Altaïr opened his eyes. It was all so strange. She could have killed him, but she didn't. And now, because of that..

He was conflicted.

She had a soul. It was twisted. It was bruised and ragged and blackened by hardship and experience, but it was _there_. He had _seen_ it.

Altaïr shook his head at his thoughts.

Stupid conscience... What does it matter? She's a monster and a demon, a linear, thief and a murderess...

_But she let you live._

Altaïr gritted his teeth in frustration and anger. Two weeks couldn't come soon enough...

-—-

**I apologize again for the inadequate excuse of this chapter.. have had no inspiration lately, nothing to fuel my plot bunnies- a term I fell in love with. I will write more.. But I don't know. I'm losing OARW to that demon known as disinterest. I don't know where the story is supposed to go, and that bothers me.**

**BUT I WILL PERSERVERE UNTIL THE LAST WORD IS WRUNG FROM MY SOUL!**

**... A little dramatic, but it gets the point across.. As always, REVIEW PLEASE!**


	11. Update Notice

Hai everyone :3

**THIS IS IN All STORIES. ITS A LETTER OF SORTS AND PERTAINS TO ALL STORIES SO THATS WHY ITS HERE :P**

(That was the longest freaking title ever xP)

Ok!

I have some good news and some bad news..  
Good news, I'm back and stuff! *scattered applause from nowhere*  
Bad news, if some of you have stories I've reviewed on then you know, and for those who don't...  
MY IPOD WAS LOST IN THE WOODSTTnTT

Yes, blame Slenderman :/

_**slenderman appears* HEY!'_

So all my stories:  
OARW, DWS, 99problems (which is getting more and more popular :/) and Impending Madness,  
(I don't count CentralDaze or Dividend, no one reads them) the parts I had planned out, have to be...

*sigh*  
Rewritten -.-  
Yeah. It sucks ...  
I'm so sorry _  
XP I'mma make Slenderman PAY for dis ...  
DWS FANS.. ATTAAAACK!

**_slenderman *runs away*_

Lol jk jk...  
*sigh*  
But seriously, this is why there have been no updates..  
So yeah.. :/  
*poofs somewhat disheartendly*  
_-_  
_**Sterling Red appears** _  
_'what the-?! Oh riiight.'_

_*pulls out a set of cue cards and starts reading from them*_  
_'Please-'_  
_*Looks at cue card again*_  
_'Please PM BadassninjaXion if you have any issues or.. Concerns. Also if...'_  
_*rolls eyes.*. 'seriously? Whatever.. Lets see.. Oh, and also if you just want to talk. She's a lonely, talkative person. ' *tosses cards away and vanishes*. F this. I'm out.'_

:)  
(Please pm me for Ideas and stuff too.. And well yeah. -.- I need Muses TTwTT  
~Xion, BadassCatNinja :3


	12. Vacation

**Hello :3 I got around to updating OARW. I finished AC1 ages ago, so... its been difficult. Meh. **

**I'm not so excited writing this as I used to be :/ **

** I heard that people liked my funny/random chapters better than my serious ones, so this is another like that. Also: this is going to be SUPER short :(**

**~Xion, Badass Cat**

Vacation

Altaïr crouched on top of the dilapidated building, relishing the painless stretching of his sinews.  
A soft breeze blew into his face, carrying the scent of the sea to his nose, fresh and clean.  
The two weeks had finally come and gone, and Altaïr was finally fully healed.  
Al Mualim had then ordered him to take it easy until he was convinced that his best assassin had not suffered any unseeable trauma.  
Altaïr had nodded like he knew what his master was talking about and excused himself.  
He was now sitting on top of Acre's dockhouse, staring out at the sea.  
There was just something about the sparkling grey water that entranced him.  
Some city guards ran by below him, chasing a girl holding a squawking chicken, and he watched them pass below the building and out of sight with only slight interest.  
The guards slowed to a stop soon after the youth rounded a corner, and they milled there, confused.  
Altaïr chuckled.  
The city guards were thicker than mud. He could see the black hair of the girl peeking out of an empty wine seller's barrel two stalls away.  
The chicken, however, had vanished completely.  
The breeze shifted slightly, bringing the scent of oil and cooling wax to Altaïr's keen nose, and he sighed contentedly.  
Despite having been wounded in both his body and his spirit, Altaïr enjoyed this...  
A moment of peace.  
A bird lazily circled above him, watching everything below with keen black eyes. Altaïr sighed again and slid off the rooftop, landing skillfully into a pile of hay. He brushed down his robes and walked out of the hay with less care than a man stepping out of his house.  
Altaïr wandered the streets slowly, keeping his head down. Trouble was prowling the city in the form of a red cross on a white field.  
"Altaïr! Come! We've been waiting!"  
Altaïr was suddenly grabbed in a tight headlock and he nearly jabbed his attacker in the neck with his hidden blade when he realized he knew the voice of his assailant.  
"_Rauf?"_  
Rauf released the assassin and beamed. "We knew you'd slink away to be solitary and depressed so we thought we'd cheer you up!"  
Altaïr narrowed his tawny yellow eyes. "We?"  
"Just accept that for one night you're going to spend some actual time with your brothers, Altaïr. There's no getting out of it."  
Altaïr spun around. Abbas was leaning against a rotted wooden beam, looking bored. "So don't even try."  
Altaïr walked up to Abbas and scrutinized his face. "What are you doing here, brother?"  
Abbas smirked. "The same as you. Vacation. Not that the Templars are going to care about our fragile mental health and will attack anyway... You've seen them. Stalking the streets like they own the city."  
Rauf jumped in between the two assassins, interrupting their conversation. "Its also my birth-day! Its time for a celebration!"  
He grabbed Altaïr's arm and started to drag him along.  
Altaïr resisted. "Have you fools even thought any of this through? What if—"  
"Nope!" Rauf sang happily, continuing to pull Altaïr along. "But that's half the fun! Lets enjoy life! Lets be fools for a night!"  
Abbas walked past, and rolled his eyes, making subtle drinky-drinky motions with his hand.  
Altaïr groaned. "Rauf, you are not thinking straight. You're drunk."  
Rauf laughed. "I am not drunk, Altair. You are. Make the world stop spinning," he moaned suddenly, then doubled over and threw up.  
Altaïr sighed angrily before pulling one of the novice's arm's around his neck and lifting him.  
"Fool."  
Rauf just groaned.  
"We rented a hostel room for the ah, celebration," Abbas slid along Altaïr's other side and helped support the novice. "Good thing I paid in advance. Lets get this moondrunk fool there."  
When Rauf was safely tucked into a bed, Altaïr confronted Abbas.  
"So..."  
Abbas walked past Altaïr without a word and started rummaging through cupboards until he found a bottle of wine.  
He uncorked it, took a sip, and then spoke.  
"Altaïr. You and I, we have never seen eye to eye. But when that.. That _bitch_ attacked..."  
He took a deep swig of his wine.  
"Obviously there are more important things going on then our petty squabbles. Perhaps if things settle, I will be forced to reevaluate my opinion of you once more, but for now, I find that we are on the same side. Assassin versus Raven, wasn't that her comparison? Eagle versus pigeon?"  
Altaïr nodded. "Brothers?" He held out his hand.

Abbas looked at it for a moment, then thrust the bottle of wine into Altaïr's open palm. "Don't start acting like a woman on me, Altaïr. I said I'd ally myself with you, not that we'd become lovers."  
Altaïr looked at the wine bottle for a second, then raised it to his lips.  
"To a pleasant and bloodless vacation."  
Abbas grinned. "To a boring and dull vacation."

_A black bird hopped off its perch outside the open window, its wings flaring open with a soft thwap thwap as it launched itself airborne. It circled the city once, then dove, clipping its wings shut, the steep dive blowing the feathers flat on its back before it snapped its wings open and glided into a curve, landing on a terraced roof, next to a woman dressed in gold silk._  
She looked up, setting her book aside, and then held out her arm, the silvered claws glinting in the dying sunlight. The metal clicked together softly along her body as she stretched languorously.  
"Come," she purred to the raven, which hopped closer and let out a soft hiss, finally fluttering onto her shoulder.  
"Tell me what you've learned."

**I did it! :D  
I wrote more OARW!  
Its hard to do now... Tata for now ^_^ ~Xion**


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